


Pull!

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [2]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22181659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Hilda is restless, and Mary knows how to show a girl a good time.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597594
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Pull!

Zelda’s working on the books in the office. Hilda’s also in the office. She tells herself she’s there for moral support, but she knows Zelda hates having someone looking over her shoulder or incessantly chattering while she’s working. The truth is, Hilda is a little lonely and restless. She’s already baked more sweets than the house can eat in a week. And she’s gotten so far ahead with her sections for Quilting and Cognac that she’s taken in Miss Kingston’s and finished them, as well. Normally she wouldn’t, but she had been bored. And besides, Miss Kingston probably had gotten behind because she has to spend so much time at the gym to maintain those gorgeous arms. A fair trade, in Hilda’s opinion.

So she’s got a solitaire game lined up on the other side of the desk and the radio on low. She’s at least picked a station that Zelda enjoys, as well. AM farm talk radio. Zelda likes the monotonous twang of changing prices for cranberries and corn, the state of the market, the vagaries of weather, the costs and benefits of crop insurance, how best to apply for a government loan. Currently there’s a Swap and Sell program—a call-in show featuring tractors and electric organs and GMC pick-ups and old rabbit hutches and steamer trunks full of vintage hats and overhauled v-12 motors originally from WWII army trucks. The whole station, and especially this program, is an exercise in mundane misery, and they both are lulled into a quiet, dull contentment by it.

The phone rings. Hilda immediately straightens in her wooden chair. Perhaps that’s the reason she’s been so restless: she’d rather suspected Miss Wardwell would contact her again after their pallet-stealing adventure. But there’s been nothing—nothing direct and even more strange, nothing indirect via Sabrina. It’s been a week, and Hilda has all but written her off as a love ‘em and leave ‘em type, which is not so much offensive or unexpected as disappointing. She hopes this call is her in the same instant that she hopes it isn’t so she doesn’t have to explain anything to Zelda. Regardless, it could just be a grieving widow requesting regular services.

In any case, Hilda knows Zelda prefers to be engaged in one thing at a time, and she’s about to say, “I’ll get it,” but Zelda is closer to the phone and has already put the receiver to her ear.

“Spellman Mortuary,” Zelda says, flat and rather sleepy.

Hilda is sitting there straight-backed, the four of clubs suspended in mid-air on its way to rest on top of the five of hearts. She pretends to be contemplating the placement as she focuses on watching Zelda’s face for clues as to what type of person has called, and, to Hilda’s chagrin, Zelda’s face has contorted in confusion.

“I’m sorry, what? I can’t quite understand you,” Zelda says into the phone.

Hilda places the four of clubs accidentally on the five of spades, realizes her error, moves it to where it should go. Zelda’s still scrunching her nose as she’s saying,

“Oh of course…. Yes… So sorry… Here she is.” Zelda places a palm over the mouthpiece and smirks, says to Hilda, “It’s that southern teacher you have a hard-on for.”

Hilda is embarrassed but elated. Finally, Miss Kingston has taken her nose out of her trigonometry books and realized what could be between them.

“Tell her I’ll take it in the hall?” Hilda whispers.

“I’d bet you’d take it anywhere she’s willing to give it,” Zelda whispers back with a lascivious crook of an eyebrow. Hilda rolls her eyes and heads out of the office.

In the hall, Hilda picks up with a curt, 

“Hello, this is Hilda Spellman,” and waits to say more until she hears Zelda’s ending click. “Miss Kingston?”

The worst approximation of a southern accent she’s ever heard says,

“Whah no, ma’am. Ah apologize for the obfuscation. But ah thought maybe you’d have too many questions to ansah if ah revealed mahself.” Hilda lets out the excited breath she’d been holding, gathers herself, says acidly,

“What do you want, Miss Wardwell?” She hears a sigh on the other end and then,

“I’m having a little party tomorrow afternoon. And I’d be honored if you were to attend.” It’s that lilting, suggestive cadence and timbre.

“Is this the kind of party that I assume to be an actual party but show up to find only you and a bottle of whiskey?” Hilda says.

“You won’t really know until you attend, I suppose,” Mary says.

“How are you going to make it worth my while, then?”

“If my body and whiskey aren’t enough to entice you, I don’t know what to tell you.” And then the line is dead.

Hilda reenters the office. Zelda looks up from her figures to be smug and knowing:

“Your magnolia wants something from you.”

Hilda sits back down in her wooden chair. She looks at her solitaire spread and then at Zelda’s face.

“You’re on your own for dinner tomorrow,” Hilda says.

“Only because you’re so possessive over your peaches,” Zelda says suggestively.

“You know what fruit trees I’m cultivating,” Hilda says noncommittally. “But still. Tomorrow you’re on your own.”

Tomorrow. Hilda pulls the Crown Vic into Mary Wardwell’s driveway at 3:30pm. There are no other cars there.

She crunches up the drive and rings the doorbell.

The door opens, and it’s Mary in jeans and a loose flannel button-up.

“Glad you decided to appear,” Mary says.

“What choice did I have?” Hilda says.

Mary laughs and grabs Hilda’s arm, pulls her in and then through the house, out the sliding-glass doors.

Out the sliding-glass doors there is a hot tub to the right, and beyond the doors straight out there is unadulterated plain bordered by woods.

A few yards off in the plain there is a skeet-thrower.

So it’s as Hilda has suspected. She is the only one here, and there is an assumption about what she will provide physically, psychologically, emotionally. She can endure that.

“I prefer a 12 gauge,” Mary says.

“So do I,” Hilda says.

In the descending twilight they alternately shout “pull” and shoot, a backlash against shoulder, pain and pleasure.

Blue clay pigeons shattering in the sunset.

“You’re a good shot,” Mary says. “Join me in the hot tub?”

“Admit I’m a better shot than you, and I’ll follow you anywhere,” Hilda says.


End file.
